


Here's Your Future

by autoschediastic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-29
Updated: 2010-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-06 19:07:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autoschediastic/pseuds/autoschediastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the Dean he knows: no hesitation, no second-guessing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here's Your Future

When the girls near the back of the bus--the pretty ones, with their sparkling bright eyes and white, white smiles--start twittering excitedly, Sam does his best to ignore them. It's practically impossible. He imagines their high-pitched squeals are what sirens really sound like, not luring sailors to their deaths but driving them mad for escape.

The giggling hits a sharp crescendo and in the corner of his eye, Sam catches the cause: sleek black shine sliding through the midtown traffic like an oil slick. The bus lumbers to a halt and the Chevy eels out in front of it, sits there, idly purring, as kids spill out into the crisp winter sunlight.

Sam slips into the aisle before anyone else can jostle into position and slings his backpack over his shoulder. He jumps down the steps, bursts free of the throng, and breaks into a jog to reach the car. The bass is already thudding in his bones, pushing through his veins to make his heart thump faster. His fingers touch the handle as the door creaks open, Dean sliding back across the seat with a huge grin splitting his lips. His eyes are hidden behind thrift-store sunglasses, his jaw darkened by a three o'clock shadow.

The heater's on blast, numbing the red-hot burn of winter on Sam's cheeks. "You're an asshole," he says, flinging his books into the back and himself into the front. "See those flashing red lights? They mean stop."

"You want back on the bus, Sammy, all you gotta do is say."

But Sam says, "Fuck no," and Dean laughs, mouth quirked just so, indulgent and not quite mean but maybe a little mocking.

It's a smile across this gap their ages have cracked open between them. Like Dean's in a different world all of a sudden, free to drop out of school, go out drinking, take the car and drive until he finds a girl who'll go down on her knees because Dean's got that reckless smile. It's not like Dad encourages any of it but he doesn't discourage it either, and Sam-

Sam's jealous.

*

The theater on McGowan has a two-for-one matinee on Tuesdays. Sam picks _Deep Impact_ over _U.S. Marshals_ and can't tell if Dean approves or not. Both movies have been out so long they're probably on tape by now. Sam doesn't care.

Dean buys popcorn and a mega-drink, foisting the snacks off on Sam as he strolls down the centre aisle, pausing twice between the cramped seats before settling. His sunglasses are tucked in the collar of his undershirt, one earpiece caught up in his amulet as he sprawls lazily in the seat.

"Here." Sam drops the popcorn into Dean's lap, keeps the soda for himself. It's half ice, as freezing as the air outside, and makes Sam's teeth ache.

The screen flickers with previews, throwing the couple down front and the guy over in the middle-right in stark relief. Most of the movies shown Sam's already heard people talk about.

A couple minutes in, Dean says, "Didn't really figure you'd wanna skip to hang out."

There's a question hanging on the air. But Sam's not sure what it is so he rolls his eyes to cover it up. "I've done that biology module about five times now."

Dean doesn't look impressed. There are tiny red indents on the bridge of his nose from his sunglasses, even smaller crinkles at the corners of his eyes from squinting into the sun. "Gettin' pretty worldly, huh."

"Shut up," Sam mumbles, sucks too hard on his straw and almost chokes.

Dean pretends to not notice, saying, "How long you figure before they start makin' out?"

Sam swallows past the tight, hard knot in his throat. He can't tell where the girl begins and the guy ends now. They're one solid black shadow, shifting quietly, furtively even though nobody can hear a thing this far away over the blaring speakers.

"Not making out," Sam says, whisper-harsh.

Dean cocks his head, makes a, "Hm?" noise and leans closer. Sam nearly fumbles the soda, curses low under his breath, and Dean pulls back with another sharp-toothed grin.

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, they're working up to it."

"D'you?"

"What?" Dean snatches the soda out of Sam's hands and plops the popcorn in its place. Sam sinks lower in his seat, sneakers skidding on the sticky floor. A few kernels tumble into the dark as he resettles the bag.

"Y'know," Sam gestures vaguely. "Do it in the theatre?"

Dean's mouth opens on a silent, "Ah." He scratches a thumb through the stubble on his chin, chews on the corner of his lip. For a minute, he looks uncertain. Another flash of light and it's gone; his teeth on his lip look deliberate now, planned. "Workin' up to it," he says.

Sam sits, watches the movie, and two days later, he doesn't have a clue when Tommy in fifth period asks if it was any good. He's pretty sure Dean could write a stunning critical review.

*

Winter digs in deep over the next couple of weeks. The wind blowing in off the Great Lakes chills Sam to the marrow. Dad says it's because he's stretched so thin, going up before he goes out, but Sam just hates the interior. Even though Dean bitches about the muggy Southern heat and the sharp salty air of the coast, Sam knows he doesn't like winter either. For most of the season, the car is parked in the back of their tiny apartment complex with a tarp carefully tucked around it, cinderblocks pinning it to the ground, while they drive around in an old truck held together by half a pound of dirt and wishful thinking.

Dean gets restless in the cold. He trudges a steady circuit from the couch to the kitchen to the bedroom and back again. All five and a half channels their bootleg cable picks up zip by in a flickering blur. Sam starts reading the same paragraph for the third time before he drops the book with a thump, crossing his arms.

"Bored, Sammy?" Dean says, tilting his head sideways to read the ink-smudged spine. "You readin' that thing voluntarily?"

"I was _trying_ to."

"Not stopping you."

"There's a 7-11 a couple blocks over."

Dean's eyes flick up. He glances at the television--Local News coming up--then out the window. There's frost on the glass, a few snowflakes lit up in the blurry streetlights. "You seriously hungry again already?"

"I'm a growing boy," Sam shrugs.

"Heh. Too easy." Still, Dean's grinning as he turns the television off, tosses the remote carelessly amongst the pile of blankets and pillows Sam keeps on the couch because it gets so damn cold at night. "Bundle up."

Sam goes for hats, scarves, gloves for them both and a couple extra shirts for himself while Dean crosses the hall to the kitchen. Dad's voice is a low rumbling, not happy but not really able to refuse as long as Dean's coming too. It rankles, not being allowed out alone after dark, even if he knows what's out there. How easy it is to walk out and just not come back.

He'd chafe more if he actually had any friends to call him on how weird it is to still have his older brother shadowing his every move. Then he'd wonder if being left behind with them is really worth it.

When Dean comes back, he grabs the ends of Sam's scarf and wraps it even higher over his mouth and nose. Sam grumbles wordlessly and shoves it back down. Dean says, "Don't blame me when your lips freeze, man."

"M'lips aren't gonna freeze. Hurry up."

Dean tucks his jeans into his boots to keep them dry. "Got enough layers?" he asks, reaching for Sam's coat like he's going to hike it up to check himself.

Sam's stomach jerks. Hastily, he says, "Yeah," and hauls open the door, cheeks reddening instantly in the gust of cold air. Out of habit (deliberate habit; always say goodbye just in case), he calls out, "Bye, Dad!" and waits for the, "Careful, son," to echo through the thin walls.

Outside, Dean slings an arm casually around Sam's shoulders. It makes walking awkward, their hips bumping, Sam shuffle-stepping to try and match Dean's gait. Always trying to keep up. The side Dean is pressed against is overwarm compared to the bitter wind biting at the other.

"So, are you I-want-some-chips hungry, or gimme a fuckin' footlong hungry?"

"Both," Sam says, not even thinking.

Dean rummages through his jacket pocket, pulling out a five-dollar bill almost torn straight through the middle. "Quantity over quality," he says, and slaps it into Sam's gloved palm.

Instinctively, Sam tightens his fingers in a fist around the money, burned by too many games of Keep Away even through he knows Dean's not going to back out of this one. "Is that your philosophy for everything?"

Dean's look is slanted, slow. Under his hat, Sam's scalp itches, too much heat building up with the scarf wrapped so close under his chin. He tugs the cap off, blows hair out of his eyes as he stuffs it in his pocket with the money.

"Most times, yeah."

Sam doesn't say anything. His heart's caught thudding somewhere around his Adam's apple; if he opens his mouth, it's going to leap right out of his throat. They keep walking, slower than before, falling into sync by accident because Sam isn't paying attention. He's letting Dean lead. Dean isn't going to back down from this, either.

"You wanna prove me wrong?"

Sam thinks about it, builds what could be the next fifteen minutes in his head over and over again. The gaudy neon lights of the 7-11 rise over the snowbound trees. He could do it. He could. It's there, written clear as sharp black newsprint in the curve of Dean's mouth, the way his eyes track Sam's.

He doesn't and then he can't, his chance whipped away on the rush of displaced air as somebody pushes open the glass door, holds it for them with a smile.

*

They take the long way home. Icy snow crunches under their boots as they trek through the barren park on the corner of McGowan and Thumberland. Dean eats more than half of the stale hot dog Sam insisted on buying, bitching about too much ketchup but licking it off his fingers just the same. Inside his gloves, Sam's hands are clammy. He tugs them off and stuffs them in his overfull pockets, pulling out the jumbo pack of Nerds to make room.

"Dad's gonna wonder where we are," he says, squinting at the box to figure out which flavour to start with.

"Don't worry, Sammy, I'll get you home before you turn into a pumpkin."

Blue Raspberry Nerds taste like Kool-Aid with too much sugar. Sam tips his head back and shakes out a mouthful straight onto his tongue. He crunches through them in time to Dean's heavy, sure steps.

"You didn't answer me, neither," Dean says.

Half-chewed bits of candy scrape Sam's throat as he swallows. "'Bout what?" he mumbles.

Dean cocks an eyebrow. Smooth, easy, like there's nothing to it. Sam wishes there were.

Stupidly, Sam stumbles on the ice. The tips of his ears flame as Dean turns, both eyebrows raised. This is the way it always goes, Dean making him feel like a dumb kid, clumsy and awkward and too fucking grateful for every scrap of his attention. If he were anybody else, Dean wouldn't look twice at him. If he were Joel's retard kid brother instead, Dean would just smirk and roll his eyes and go off with the stacked chick from Sonic the guys at school are always going on about.

"I-" Sam fumbles the box of Nerds, tiny red and blue candies pattering the snow in a multicoloured rain. "Dean, we, Jesus-"

Dean makes a clucking noise with his tongue. He steps forward and Sam goes back, keeps going until a snow-crusted wirepole presses between his shoulderblades. "Shouldn't be cussing like that at your age, Sammy."

A nervous, high-pitched bark of a laugh shoots out of Sam's mouth. "You're not fuckin' serious."

"There you go again." Dean almost stops there, like he's thinking better of it, but he goes on, says, "Just trying to work me up, aren't you?"

The world tilts sideways, wobbles there for a second or more before righting itself. "Are," Sam's voice cracks; Dean's grin widens, "are you gonna?"

The edge in Dean's voice doesn't match the look in his eyes when he says, "You gonna make me?" and Sam didn't know he could do this, _be_ this person who's leaning in--in, not up, _You keep growin' like that, kiddo, you might get an inch on me_\--to kiss his brother square on the mouth.

Dean encourages him with soft noises echoing deep in his throat, tipping his head (like the girl, letting Sam kiss him like he's the _girl_, no shame because Sam has it all, his face burning up with it) to make it harder. Hard and wet and dirtier than it should be because it's already dirty enough, it's Sam's tongue in his mouth smack dab in the middle of good ol' American values, being gay means AIDS'll kill you, incest only happens somewhere else because a father's a sick fuck and a daughter's too scared to know better.

Sam knows better. He licks at the slick, warm inside of Dean's mouth and knows a hell of a lot better. The unsteady lurch in his guts tells him it's wrong. It's just like riding a roller coaster--maybe it's making him sick but he still doesn't want to stop.

"Spread your legs," Dean says, adrenaline-rough; Dean turned on sounds like Dean after a hunt. A sick, dizzying thrill goes through Sam, not sure if he wants what Dean's offering even as he's inching his feet further apart, digging his boots sharply into the snow. Dean's hands sneak under his jacket, his shirts, cold fingers bring his breath in a hiss as they curl, long and strong and sure, on his waist. A thumb scratches at the sparse hair just below Sam's belly button and his whole body jerks, throbs in time to the teasing stroke.

Then Dean fits himself into the space Sam's made, straddling one of Sam's thighs, grinding against his hip. His face is open, raw. Sam's never seen him like this; seen him bleeding and broken, seen hurt take the years out of his eyes, but never this. Sam doesn't know what it is, doesn't know what to do with it or why Dean's showing it to him now.

He can't feel anything except the heat of Dean's cock digging into him until Dean's at his ear whispering that he's gotta do it too, gotta rub himself off on Dean's thigh just like that, _gotta come, gonna come, Sammy, gonna make me fuckin' come_.

*

Dad leaves on Thursday saying he'll be back Friday night. Dean makes Sam breakfast and gets him ready for school and nothing happens. Sam's lips still burn with the scrape of Dean's stubble but Dean is all smiles, joking and laughing and being the same big brother that Sam's had for almost sixteen years.

In math, Sam decides it's never going to happen again. In language arts, that it never should've happened at all. Walking home, late because he missed the bus, that he's not sure he can face Dean ever again without throwing up. The hot, fat tears that threaten to slide down his face are for not being good enough, for being the messed-up kid who wants his brother to be the first person he fucks.

The kitchen is cool and dark when he gets home. The living room is, too. Sam slinks through the house, alley-cat wary, to the warm glow coming from the bedroom.

Dean is asleep, fully-clothed, on top of the rumpled covers. His fingers are tucked nonchalantly in the twisted waistband of his jeans, thumb hitched up in his shirt, revealing a thin sliver of muscled stomach and dark trail of hair. Sam's throat goes dry and his mouth goes wet. He bets Dean posed himself like that on purpose because Dean does shit like that.

He's still trying to figure out what to do when Dean cracks open one eyelid, says, "Wanna stick your tongue down my throat again?" and smirks knowingly, both eyes closed again, as Sam drops his half-open backpack, papers and pencils and empty lunch container spilled across the floor.

Bitterly, because he wants it too bad, Sam says, "Yeah, only if you're the girl this time, too."

Dean flings an arm over his eyes. "Just c'mere," he grunts.

Sam thinks about saying no, about turning right back around, taking the winter cold instead of the heat built up in the blankets. It already feels too stuffy in the bedroom, thermostat cranked up, his skin tight and prickling. His fingers are thick and clumsy as he unzips his coat, pulls off his shirt.

"More like it," Dean says. He scoots over to make room, patting the bed by his hip. He doesn't say a word when Sam swallows his pride, ignores the flush creeping up the back of his neck and straddles Dean's thighs instead. Dean's hand settles easily, naturally, on the sharp jut of Sam's hipbone.

"Is that all you wanna do, make out?" Sam asks, voice cracking only a bit. He knows Dean can see right through the bravado--see right through him--but he has to try. He's got an image in his head of the person Dean wants most. That's who he's got to be.

"Dunno," Dean says. Strong fingers slip up Sam's side, tangle up in his shirt to pull him down. The noise Sam wants to make gets caught up in his throat, stifled by _what if it sounds stupid_ and a dozen other reasons for why Sam's a freak with no friends. "Do it like you did last night and I'll let you know."

This is the Dean he knows: no hesitation, no second-guessing. He says, "God," and drops to his elbows over Dean, mouth-to-mouth in a heartbeat because stuff like that just _gets_ to Sam. Makes him forget he's probably going to screw up, makes him just plain want.

Dean tastes different, less salty; Dean without candy additives or simulated-smoke hot dog flavouring, nothing but soft lips, a little chapped, and the slick warmth inside his mouth. This time, the sounds bubbling up from Sam's chest slip free, muffled and slurred.

One broad, flat palm presses low on Sam's back and Dean pulls away, licks his lips. Sam hears the sneering voices belonging to the guys from that school down near Boston echoing inside his head: cocksucker and fag and fudge packer and yeah, Sam thinks, yeah, so what, _so what_ and feels like he's gonna lose it.

"Slow down," Dean says, the hand on Sam's back slipping lower, curving solid and warm over his ass.

Sam jerks, shivers rippling up the length of his spine. He knows what he's supposed to think of that touch but it's all messed up because it's his brother. "Tell me what I'm 'sposed to do."

"S'good, Sammy." Dean's other hand comes up, cups the back of Sam's skull. "Use your teeth, 'm gonna like anything you do."

The first nip Sam tries at Dean's mouth is tentative, questioning. He earns himself a quiet moan and Dean's eyes sliding shut and then it's easier to lick at Dean's lips, bite at the stubble-rough line of his jaw and his throat, down further where the skin's soft and smooth. Dean grabs Sam's hips and starts rocking, slower then faster, tilting his head and arching his back to offer up more skin. He's saying, "Yeah, c'mon, bite harder, doesn't hurt," his throat already riddled with red marks, "Fuck, _harder_," as he fumbles at his shirt.

Sam's got one hand squeezing his own cock and his mouth somewhere around Dean's collarbone when the front door bangs open and Dad hollers, "Boys!"

"Shit," Sam hisses right when Dean says, "Fuck!" and they're scrambling apart, Sam so hard he's dizzy with it and Dean doesn't look much better, no way of hiding what he's been doing, that someone's been chewing on his neck and he liked it just fine.

Dean calls out, "Comin', Dad," eyes on Sam wide and shock-bright green. For once, he looks as caught up and confused as Sam feels. "Sam, Jesus."

Sam rubs his lips dry on the back of his wrist. He just nods and follows Dean down the hall, turned on and numb and sickly grateful for once that their dad's so wrapped up in himself and the six-inch gouge in his side that he doesn't notice the way Sam's hands shake.

*

Tuesday morning the sun is hidden behind thick, dark clouds. Fat snowflakes drift lazily down, pile in tiny heaps around the truck's tires and the front stoop. The door sweeps the snow into a lumpy wedge when Sam shoulders it open, his heavy breath steaming the air. The cold in his lungs wakes him up faster than the lukewarm coffee he stole from Dean.

He misses the bus, again, which means he's late for homeroom. He tracks puddles to his desk and slumps in the seat, tucking his shoulders around his ears as heads turn and chairs scrape. If he were Dean, he'd grin and crack a joke, or flip them off, and they'd think he was so cool. Melissa Sampson, who's glaring daggers over her shoulder, would write his name in her notebook and draw fat pink hearts all around it.

If he were Dean, he'd fuck her in the Impala's backseat, promise to call and forget her number. She'd cry in the girl's bathroom with her friends all gathered around and they'd call him a dirtbag, an asshole. One girl would be braver than the others and she'd hiss _cocksucker_ never knowing she's right.

Dean doesn't know Melissa exists but Sam hates her, _hates_.

In sixth period, after lunch, Sam's called out of class. He expects Dad to be waiting in the parking lot, everything important already packed up in the truck and Dean tailing them out of town in the car, so he takes his books, aims a snide smirk at the back of Melissa's head.

It's Dean waiting for him in the empty hall.

"What're you doing here?"

"Savin' you from yourself," Dean says, grabbing his arm, dragging him through the fingerprint-smeared doors. "C'mon."

Sam stumbles around the corner, wind blasting him in the face and stealing his breath. The snow is up to his ankles, old and dirty, iced over. It shatters beneath his feet like glass to reveal the light, flimsy underlayer. It's just like how Sam feels.

"What're you _doing_?" Sam hisses. Dean tosses him a careless grin and pulls him into the alcove between the music room and the gym. There's a tiny pocket of warmth, the grey-brown grass peeking through the melting snow. Trash litters the ground, bottles and wrappers and cigarette butts.

"Already told ya," Dean says. One good hard shove has Sam falling against the red, water-stained brick and then Dean is on his knees looking up. He's hyped-up, a frantic light in his eyes. Their dad isn't going to catch them but everyone else could. "Gonna suck you off right here."

"Jesus _Christ_." Sam's voice goes before he can say Dean's name; Dean's already got his jeans open, his stomach tensing at the shock of cold air.

"You want it?"

Sam pushes into the warmth of Dean's palm cupping his cock. His mouth is dry; he should say no, no, not here, never, just _no_ and he can't, he's been wanting this, woken up with his shorts sticky he's wanted it so bad.

He wonders if Dean would actually take no for an answer or if the chance is too long gone. He doesn't want to try because that might be what Dean's waiting for. One-up only ever ends when somebody calls it quits.

"Thought so," Dean says, and then it's his mouth instead of his hand, warm breaths seeping through thin cotton, warm, wet tongue pressed against Sam's cock. Another shock of cold when Dean pulls away, the material soaked through by his spit. Sam's teeth clench.

It doesn't last long. Afterward, all Sam can remember is Dean's hand, Dean's lips, Dean's cheeks hollowed out as he sucks. Dean's hair, gelled stiff, prickling at his palm.

Dean's eyes fluttering shut when Sam can't take it any more and comes down his brother's throat.

*

They're not alone in the house again for another two weeks. Sam feels like he's trying to live underwater, everything weighted down, sluggish, lungs fit to burst in need of oxygen. It doesn't seem to affect Dean at all, like all it took was that day behind the school to thumb his nose at everyone and everything was all okay again. The result is Sam getting angry, angrier and angrier until he corners Dean in the bathroom, up in his face about it, their dad less than ten feet away.

"What d'you want me to do?" Dean hiss-whispers, pissed off just because Sam is. "Fuck you while he's sleepin?"

Sam's whole body goes tight, taut and singing. He wonders what that'd be like, Dean all over him, inside him, fucking into him. Breath rattling on a slow intake, he shakes his head. "No."

"You sure? 'Cause it sounds that way to me."

"I want-" something, anything, he just wants to mean something to Dean but he can't say that. Borderline obsession, he knows it's unhealthy. Sam's got an addictive personality; he'd overdose on Dean if he could. "I wanna fuck you."

Dean's eyes flare wide, summer green iris thinned to almost nothing around the black of his pupil. Sam tracks the bob of his throat as he swallows and leans in. Dean always taught him to push any advantage he could get.

The words feel like lead but he pushes them out, says, "Really, really want to fuck you," the way Dean would. He likes the way it feels on his tongue, how it acts like a key, opens Dean right up. "Wanna know how good you feel."

"Christ, Sammy, shut up," Dean snaps. His cheeks are flushed dark. The heavy weight of his dick presses against Sam. "You're gonna-"

"Make you blow a load in your pants?"

Dean reaction is instantaneous: he groans and slumps back against the bathroom door, cants his hips up and out so Sam can grind against him. They push and shove and thrust against one another, muffling the noise to keep an ear out for Dad. Sam is so excited and thrilled and high on the power he has over Dean that he's almost sick with it.

He's younger, hornier Dean says, but either way, Sam comes first. He's glad of it, too, because it means he gets to watch Dean fall apart.

It takes Dean a couple extra minutes to pull himself together. That's more than enough time for Sam to find the courage to blatantly touch him, fingertips combing through the wiry hair low on Dean's belly, smearing the come clinging to the slit. Dean makes a noise like it hurts. Sam knows exactly how he feels.

*

That's the start of Sam's newest preoccupation. The phantom sensation clings to Sam's hand; he's in math again, not learning a thing because he swears he can still feel the roughness of those short, prickly hairs against his palm. It's not like he hasn't seen Dean naked before but he's never really let himself _look_, not close enough or for long enough to realise that Dean keeps things trimmed nice and neat down below.

He gets hard thinking about it. Carrying his books in front of his groin to and from class is awkward and embarrassing. It feels like everyone who glances his way knows he's popped a boner over his older brother's pubes.

On the sink, back in the apartment next to the crooked tube of toothpaste and Dad's old electric razor (that only Dean uses) is a tiny pair of surgical scissors. The kind with blunt, rounded tips. After he takes a leak and he's busy washing his hands, Sam finds himself staring at them, wondering.

Dean's in the kitchen reading a box of Hamburger Helper. The back of Sam's neck is already red when he asks, shifting uncomfortably because he can't believe he's doing this, that he's let Dean push him this far just by being _Dean_, "Is that what you use, those scissors in the bathroom?"

The question's way out of left field, far enough to at least warrant a blank stare. A quirk of Dean's lips is all Sam gets, then a smile, slow and salacious, a little bit fake. "You sure you wanna talk about this now?"

Sam sets his mouth in a hard, stubborn line. "Don't treat me like a kid."

This time, Dean's smile falters, his eyes widen a little. The smile comes back changed, softer at the edges. Sam really wants to kiss him but Dad's just outside. "'M not, Sammy. Just don't wanna start something we can't finish."

Off-balance--he always is with Dean--Sam says, "Oh."

"Yeah. Oh."

"Shut up, forget about it."

Throwing one quick, cautious glance at the door, Dean puts down the box. Sam's pretty sure he doesn't really want to say what comes out of his mouth next but Dean's got to play by his own rules or quit. "No, c'mon. You got some kinky ideas or something?"

"What?"

Dean taps the centre of Sam's forehead with a knuckle. "What's goin' on in there, why'd you wanna know so bad?"

"Nothing," Sam says, taking a half-hearted swipe at Dean's arm. "I just." The hair on the back of his neck prickles, gooseflesh pebbles his skin. "Maybe I wanted to watch," he spits out in a rush, half-afraid Dean'll call him chicken if he doesn't, half-afraid this'll be his only chance.

Dean says, "That's pretty kinky," and goes back to fixing dinner without another word until that night, when Sam wakes up with Dean's hand covering his mouth. A quiet "Ssh," whispered in his ear, "keep quiet and c'mon."

Sleep-dazed, Sam stumbles out of bed. He fights with his boxers, worn cloth all twisted up from his tossing and turning, and shuffles after Dean, expecting harsh white light and bloodstained towels.

Instead, the bathroom's clean and humid, mirror fogged over from Dean's too-hot shower. Carefully, Dean wipes every inch of it clear, jerking his chin when Sam settles on the closed toilet lid.

"Need you up here," he says.

"What for?"

"Always with the questions," Dean says. "C'mere, stand behind me."

Sam's heart somersaults up into his throat. He half-tumbles off the lid, sliding his arms around Dean's waist only after Dean tells him to, fingers splayed wide on warm, damp skin. He didn't realise Dean was shirtless before, or that the jeans barely hanging onto Dean's hips are unzipped. There's nothing underneath but skin.

"What're you doing?"

In the mirror, Dean's reflection crooks an eyebrow. His jeans hit the floor with a muffled thump.

Sam says, "Oh, god," as Dean pushes back flush against him, his cock pressed so close to all that naked skin.

Dean's looking down now, too. "Put your hand on my dick, yeah. Just don't-" his throat bobs as Sam's hand covers him, warm flesh filling out and heating up with blood, "-don't jerk me off or nothin' yet, said you wanted to watch."

"Yeah," Sam says, "yeah, I did, god, Dean." He holds Dean's cock in his hand, watches Dean's fingers tremble, and thinks, broken-record, yeah, this is what he wanted.

He looks up and doesn't recognise the person staring back at him in the mirror. That's not who he sees in his own head. He thinks maybe, maybe that's who he'd see if he were his brother.

*

Dad leaves again, this time on a Tuesday. On Thursday he's still not back. The Chevy's waiting on the curb by the chain-link fence on Friday after school, Dean in the driver's seat tapping along to a beat Sam can feel vibrating in his chest from twenty feet away.

Sam hears, "Faggot," hissed low and mean, a girl's nervous giggle and the crackle-crunch of booted feet in the snow. Something like guilt twists up Sam's insides. He wants to whip around, shut them up with his fists. If he did, he'd win for now. Later, they'd jump him in the park and beat him half to death, hate and fear filling up their eyes. He's a cocksucker and a brother-fucker. That's the kinda thing that happens to freaks like him.

Melissa would be so disappointed in Dean.

The car rocks when Sam slams the door and slumps into the seat. Dean's eyebrows go up. "Get a B minus or somethin'?"

Sam bites out, "Just shut up."

"Whoa," Dean says, shooting Sam a startled look in the middle of easing the car out into the street. "What the fuck's that for?"

"Don't stop here, god." Sam sinks lower in the seat. "Keep going."

"You wanna tell me what crawled up your ass and died?"

"No." Surprisingly, it's true. He doesn't want to tell Dean at all about the squirmy, excited feeling he gets thinking about what they do. He's never sure if it makes him want to throw up or not, if it's _normal_ to be so completely absorbed in what he's feeling that he can't think straight.

Softly, Dean asks, "You sure?"

"They'd split us up if they knew, wouldn't they?"

"Jesus Christ." Dean jerks the car back off the road so quick it starts to fishtail on the black ice and they end up halfway into a side street, another car whipping by with the horn blaring. "If- what? Social services?"

"Yeah."

Dean's voice is careful, his gaze worried. Sam's gratified to see it and hates that he is. "Somebody say something to you? Teacher, principal?"

"No, god, just." Sam quits picking at the piping on the leather seat to shove his hair back out of his face. "I think some of the guys at school saw us. Y'know, that day." Like he thinks Dean might've wanted when they did it and didn't really regret later.

"Oh," Dean says. His fingers clench-unclench on the steering wheel. "They know?"

"Dunno," Sam says. He's pretty sure they don't know Dean's his brother. They haven't been here long enough for Dean to be forced into the usual father role, attending Parent-Teachers because Dad's in Colorado tracking kelpies down the river, or in upstate Michigan smoking the ghost of an abusive husband. "Fag's bad enough, I guess."

"Punk bastards," Dean growls, as if it isn't his fault. He glances over his shoulder and nudges the car back into gear. "We're not gonna be here much longer, Sammy. Dad's almost got the nest cleaned out, we'll be on the road again in a month, maybe less."

Sam lets his head fall back. The ceiling upholstery has little pockmarks in it, not-quite-holes from years and years of Sam picking at it while Dad drives and Dean leans up between the seats quizzing Sam on his short answers and multiple choice. He doesn't want to go back to crappy motels and diners with rubber food but he doesn't want to stay, either. Every time they settle down he thinks this is it, he'll make friends here, he'll grow up here, but it never works. Too many days missed, too little of Dad around, too many questions from his teachers and weird sideways glances from his classmates.

"Yeah," Sam says, "okay," and Dean pats his knee, one-two, leaving his hand there so the warmth sinks into Sam's bones.

*

Two weeks later, Dad is haggard and worn, the fresh stitches in his side infected with something antibiotics can't touch. The tension level in the house skyrockets; Sam slams doors and Dean shouts for him to quit it. Dad wipes a hand over his sweaty face and bellows above the noise for them both to clam up.

"You're gonna _die_," Sam spits.

Dad's smile is crooked. "Not today, kiddo," he says, as if that's not the point Sam's trying to make. Maybe not today, or tomorrow, but someday a hunt's going to go wrong. Then it'll just be him and Dean. Sam wishes he could ignore the niggling voice in the back of his head telling him that's exactly what he wants because it isn't. It just isn't.

"Look, Sam," Dean says, big-brother serious. Faking it again. "Nobody's dying. Me 'n you are gonna go get this gungo pea juice stuff. Probably won't even need it."

The cracked-pavement lines in Dad's face ease. "Won't hurt. Take the truck." Pride in his boys shines bright as the fever in his eyes.

Dean says, "Aw, man," because he hates that thing.

By six, twilight already settling into night, they're on the road. Both Dad and Dean have forgotten Sam's got school in the morning. It doesn't matter to him, anyway. They drive the first hour with the speakers blaring, the second with smoother classic rock because Sam's got a vicious headache. Midnight comes and goes long before they stop.

The truck door slamming wakes Sam. Blearily, he takes in the dirty, cramped lot, the flickering signs, the peeling paint. Familiar bitter resentment settles like a blanket over the hunch of his shoulders.

Dean hauls open the passenger door. "You want beer?"

"What?"

"I said, you want beer? And c'mon, grab that stuff outta the back."

Sam hops down and fights with the seat. "You serious?" he asks, but Dean's already halfway across the lot peering at door numbers. He jogs to catch up and repeats the question.

Dean says, "Yep," after unlocking the door. "Dad said somebody's gonna meet us right here in the morning. The way I figure it, we got two choices." He takes the bag from Sam, tosses it on one of the beds as he circles the room. "We crash or we have ourselves some fun."

Liquid heat pools low in Sam's belly. He should've stayed home. "You want to get wasted," he says.

"Yeah, maybe," Dean says, shrugging. "Beats the hell out of waking up plastered in a snowbank."

"You haven't done that," Sam snorts.

"Honestly," Dean says, eyebrow cocked, waiting for an answer.

Sam glances around, spots a chair by the scratched-up television stand and drops himself into it. He pictures in his head what he wants this to look like before he plants his feet solidly on the threadbare carpet, legs spread wide, hands folded casually on his stomach. This is the sort of thing he thinks about sometimes, how he wants Dean to see him, how it'll make Dean treat him.

With razor-winged butterflies slicing up his insides, Sam says, "Is that going to make it easier when we fuck?" surprised to find it sounds like he knows exactly what he's doing.

Colour creeps up Dean's neck, which means he's turned on (twin spots of red stain his cheeks when it's embarrassment and Sam hardly ever sees that). "You seem pretty sure that's gonna happen."

But he isn't. He doesn't know how the hell Dean managed to convince Dad to let the two of them go off like this on their own, infection or not. Maybe if he'd stuck around he'd know, but he doubts it. Dad says him and Dean have a language all their own. Sam would say so do they and it's one he'll never understand.

What he does know is that he wants it (shouldn't) and Dean wants it (wouldn't if Sam didn't). He can see it in the trapped-rabbit rise and fall of Dean's chest, in the way he holds himself tense, waiting, pupils blown wide and hazy dark black. This is a better chance than he'd ever thought they'd get.

"No still means no, Dean," Sam says, shoving up out of the chair. He's steadier on his feet than he feels, voice smooth where it feels it's about to crack. This is the part Dean's supposed to play. "So tell me no."

Dean rubs his fingers over his lips, quiet rasp of stubble against his palm. This time Sam can translate the emotions on his face as easy as the dusty old books Dean used to teach him Latin. Clearest is lust. Want, which isn't at all the same, guilt and nervous, jittery fear, pride or something close enough to it.

Dean doesn't tell him no and isn't ever going to. Dean also never says if he's done this before or not and Sam doesn't ask, just silently wishes to hell and back again that he could claim to be the first to break Dean open like this.

Playground taunts turn to hot, dirty encouragement as they tumble (pushed, brazen, _I'll do it if you do it first_) from Dean's lips, punctuated by hitched breaths and slow, gut-deep moans. Sam shoves inside too fast, lube-slick and sweaty. His whole system shakes with the shock. This isn't how he pictured it. It's too real, too gritty. The whole world should stop and stare in horror but it's just them.

"Sam," Dean says on a shallow breath. The muscles in his thigh jump under Sam's hand, tendons strained to the limit, legs splayed wide, one pinned to the sheets and the other hooked awkwardly over Sam's shoulder. "Sam, jerk me off, you gotta." He rolls his hips to meet Sam, the slap of damp flesh all instinct. Sam's gaze catches on the smooth, sinuous flex of muscle as Dean does it again, again. He sinks into the rhythm Dean creates and forgets all about getting his hand on Dean's cock until Dean puts it there for him.

"Sorry," Sam says. "Sorry, I didn't- god, didn't think you'd feel this good." He tugs at Dean's dick clumsily, face burning because he can do better, he can, he _has_, but Dean just shakes his head, says, "'S good, 's good, don't stop."

Sam loses himself, feels a chunk of who he thought he was shove down his spine and out his dick in a dizzying rush that leaves him gasping and moaning, face pressed to Dean's chest because he can't hold himself up anymore. When he feels Dean tense up, feels the way his limbs go tight and trembling, he pushes up on his elbow and watches Dean's face go slack, those wide, glass-bright eyes go sightless. He kisses Dean then, tries to make it better than he's ever tried before, while Dean's still fumbling and out of it. It's so right it hurts.

They sleep in the same bed, skin-to-skin. In the early, early morning, Dean bitches about the mess. Maybe Sam should've found it a little funny but all he does it get blindingly hard. Dean notices, smirks, and starts adding filthy cusses, saying things that make Sam's ears burn and his stomach tie itself up in terrible knots of want.

Their contact meets them in the shabby room off the lobby that holds two beaten up old coffee makers and a pile of stale muffins. Sam's pissy and sullen during the entire ten-minute conversation.

They barely make check out by the nine o'clock cut-off time. Sam falls asleep tucked up under Dean's arm ("Never could keep your eyes open on the long drives," Dean says), the taste of Dean and bitter coffee perfect on his tongue.

*

Only a few days after that they're back on the road for real. Sam gets pulled out of school before lunch, regretting the missed opportunity to slam his fist into Doug Gleason's bigoted face and escape the inevitable backlash.

As Dean walks along beside him to the car (they'll follow Dad out of town, old enough to have the car to themselves but not old enough to have more than half a mile of asphalt between them), their shoulders bumping, he daydreams about shoving Dean up against the driver's side door, kissing him hard and dirty, full-body-grinding contact, right in front of everybody. One last big final _fuck you_ to yet another place that didn't let Sam have a fair chance at normal.

But he doesn't. It's not the world's problem that he doesn't fit in it.


End file.
